LEAVING HOME.

Battered hands leave smudges on the window,
Fingers and palms, photographs of fleshy time,
Beyond stern-faced suits and bleary mothers,
Clouds all-knowing, nightmarishly grey.

Flock of birds in flight, weaving skeletal trees,
Numb leg taps to songs of your existence,
Past glass are nameless towns, unfamiliar hills,
Hurtle past, ever further from home.

Snippets of chatter, disillusions and dreams,
Tabletop littered with coffee cups, stimulating,
Through sleep find company on a distant carriage,
The woman combs, loose hair falls like hope.

Billowing chimneys and busy lights shrouded,
Cold metal bench waiting, an underground breeze,
Heavy bag laden with cheerful gifts, my ticket home,
Choked to tears by lives and lies, these two weeks.

Engine running, gloved hands and open arms,
Shadow of night greeting at journeys end,
A message from far away, small smile creases,
Traveller in B30 is weary and tired, come to bed.